


To Quell the Dark

by arihime



Series: Chrobin Week 2016 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arihime/pseuds/arihime
Summary: Basilio’s escape plan fails, stranding the Shepherds in Plegia after Emmeryn’s death. As they take shelter in an abandon temple, Chrom reflects on his grief, and the growing realization that he might not live through this one. . .





	

**Author's Note:**

> Two weeks later, I'm finally posting this on AO3. Title comes from AmaLee's version of Lost in Thoughts All Alone.
> 
> Big thanks to Sarai for beta'ing.

In the end, they can go no further. Frederick and Aislin herd everyone into an abandoned building, while Basilio curses the Plegians for outsmarting him and intercepting the cart he planned as their getaway.

Narcissus says nothing.

All of this happens around Chrom, but he has no say in it. Now that the anger has left him, he is numb with grief. When he closes his eyes, he can see Emmeryn laid flat on the stone, her blood dyeing both it and her hair a sickly red that not even the rain can wash away. He barely feels Aislin tugging on his sleeve to get him to follow the others. She has Narcissus in one hand, and Chrom in the other, and after a moment her gentle tugs turn to flat out pulling. Chrom follows her easily, noting with some relief that at least there isn’t any blood in her blonde hair.

Chrom looks for more blonde hair when he enters the temple. There’s a flash of it by the doorway, but that’s only the new priest, Libra, tending to those Shepherds too injured to move on their own. He finds the person he is looking for farther in. Lissa’s hair is clean but soaked through by the rain. Her face is buried in Maribelle’s shoulder, and her body shakes with tears that Chrom cannot see. Lon’qu stands guard over both of them, grimmer faced than usual.

He should go over there and comfort her. It is his duty as her big brother. But every time he thinks about it, his legs lock up, and his mind goes blank. There is nothing that Chrom can say to excuse his failure, nothing that will bring Emmeryn back. 

He is grateful, then, when Aislin takes the decision away from him, pushing both him and Narcissus until they are sitting against an unoccupied wall. There are many of those in here. The building they have picked is expansive, with odd symbols along the wall. Most important though is that there is a roof over their heads to keep the rain away, though Chrom can still hear it in the distance.

“We need to get dry.” Aislin mumbles, almost to herself. She turns over her shoulder and calls, “Miriel! Do you have a fire tome?”

The reply is muffled. Aislin heaves a sigh and, with a look back at Chrom and Narcissus, goes to confer with the others.

It’s odd, seeing her take charge like that. Normally, Chrom or Narcissus lead, and Aislin simply follows them. But neither of them is fit to lead right now. Chrom knows himself well enough to realize that, and as for Narcissus. . .

He casts a glance at the tactician beside him. Narcissus’ eyes are shadowed by his wet hair, and he looks worlds away from the exuberant young man Chrom has grown to trust with his life. When he catches Chrom looking, Narcissus ducks his head even further and presses himself against the wall as if he could melt into it.

His lips form a word that Chrom doesn’t understand.

“What?”

“’M sorry.” Narcissus says again. He finally looks up, and Chrom is appalled to see tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry. For what happened to Emmeryn. Gods, you must hate me. It’s all my fault. If only I’d planned better, maybe—”

“The only one at fault here is Gangrel.” Chrom spits the name. “You did everything you could, Narcissus. This isn’t your fault.”

“But—”

“It isn’t your fault.” It’s Chrom’s, for not being able to protect his sister, and Gangrel’s, for putting Emm up on that gods forsaken peak, but it certainly isn’t Narcissus’. Chrom might not be able to comfort Lissa, but finding the words to comfort Narcissus is surprisingly easy. 

“If it wasn’t for you, Narcissus, I don’t think we would have ever gotten this far. So please, don’t blame yourself. Emmeryn’s death isn’t your fault.”

“Alright. . .” Narcissus says, rubbing at his eyes half-heartedly. “I’ll get Gangrel for you, I swear. He won’t get away with this.”

Chrom’s hands clench into a fist. “No, he won’t.” He vows. “But when that time does come, Gangrel is mine.”

Emmeryn wouldn’t approve of his seeking revenge, but Chrom doesn’t care. That mad man has done too much to Ylisse to be allowed to roam free. A very, very morbid part of Chrom can’t wait to see Gangrel’s body impaled on his blade, even though his better half does feel guilty. 

Still, a battle with Gangrel is far away from where he is now, in several senses of that word. And while Chrom’s need for revenge doesn’t go away, the immediacy lessens a bit with the realization. There is nothing he can do to Gangrel now, but what he can do is be the commander that the Shepherds need. Or at least, he can work his way up to it. Facing them all now is unthinkable, but he does glance across the expanse of the room to make sure all of them are accounted for and taken care of. Everyone seems to be fine, and so Chrom gives an exhale and settles back against the wall, tension in his body lessening. Without the numbness, he can feel the ache and pains that came with the battle, but those are preferable to the nothing he felt before. 

Water drips off his body and pools on the ground underneath him. The inside of the building is _cold,_ and Chrom has to fight not to shiver. He hopes Aislin will return with fire soon, but she comes back to them empty handed, trailed by the new dark mage. Tharja, he thinks is her name. She keeps her distance from the group, though she leers at Narcissus the whole time.

“Frederick is trying to find something we can burn so Miriel can start a fire. Until then, I guess we just have to wait.” 

She sighs, and for the first time Chrom notices how tired she looks, weighed down by her soaked clothes. He frowns, but before he can say anything Aislin asks, “How are you two holding up?”

“Fine.” Narcissus says, and indeed he’s looking better since their talk.

Still, Aislin’s eyes narrow in scrutiny. “You sure, Sissy?”

“Really Ash, I’m fine.”

“Chrom?” 

He’s been better, but considering how much worse this situation could have gone. . .

“I’m alright.” He says, and means it. Emm is dead, yes, but the other Shepherds are alive, and for the moment, they are safe.

“What about you?” Chrom asks. “Are you alright?”

The other image he can’t get out of his head is that of the Plegian general looming over Aislin, axe poised over her head. If Chrom and Narcissus had been even a second slower, she would have. . . 

Chrom would have lost someone else he cared about, and the thought is unbearable.

“I’m fine.” Aislin says. “Soaked to the bone and cold, but fine.”

“Here.” Narcissus pulls his arm from the sleeve of his cloak and beckons Aislin closer.

“Your cloak is as soaked as everything else is.” Aislin grumbles, but she sits down next to him and lets Narcissus throw both the cloak and his arm over her shoulder.

“Better?”

Aislin’s response is to snuggle closer to him.

A pang of loss goes through Chrom at the sight of them. He remembers Emmeryn doing something similar with him and Lissa, when he was still young and didn’t think himself above sharing story time with his sisters. She would huddle them altogether under the same blanket, then read to them until they fell asleep.

Chrom would give anything to go back to those times.

“What is this place, anyway?” Narcissus asks, looking around at the walls and ceiling.

“It’s an old temple to the Dead Lords.” Tharja pipes up, coming away from the shadows. She looks—delighted isn’t the word—but rather morbidly pleased at being able to share that news.

Aislin jerks up from the wall and away from her brother’s arm. “What?”

“You didn’t notice?”

“What are the Dead Lords?” Narcissus asks. 

“Not what, who.” Tharja says. “The legends say that they were among Grima’s finest warriors, the generals of his army and leaders of the troops of Risen that ravaged the land, before Naga and her Exalted One slew the Fell Dragon. Even now, it is said that they will arise if called to protect the Fell bloodline.”

“It’s a myth.” Aislin spits out.

“Perhaps, but all myths have some basis in truth.”

“We’d best hope this one doesn’t.” Frederick says, coming up to them with a torch in hand. “Otherwise, we’ve sought refuge in the heart of the enemy.”

“They won’t come unless summoned.” Tharja says, and there’s a weight to her words that Chrom doesn’t understand.

“It’s a myth.” Aislin says again. “They won’t be coming at all.”

She takes the torch from Frederick and busies herself with making a pit in the sand so it can burn. Her movements are tense and agitated, and Chrom wonders why talk of this myth set her off so. He glances at Narcissus, but the tactician’s confused look says he doesn’t know either. Chrom contemplates asking Tharja, but she’s already slipped back into the shadows.

Despite Frederick’s words, being in the temple doesn’t really bother Chrom that much. Mythical figures are worlds away from the threat he knows lurks beyond the temple. The Plegian army is bound to be looking for them, and sooner or later, they are going to find them.

For everyone’s sake, Chrom hopes that it’s later.

In a few minutes, Aislin has a fire burning in front of them. More dot the landscape of the temple. With the heat comes a slight lightening of the mood, the grief that had encompassed all the Shepherds lifting into something less pressing. Across the expanse, he can hear voices murmuring as people congregate around the fires. 

At Frederick’s urging, Chrom strips off his outer layers and sets them close to the fire so that they can dry. Narcissus does the same with his cloak and shirt, and soon they both stand naked from the chest up, basking in the warmth.

“Come on, Ash.” Narcissus says, trying to coax her to do the same. “You’ll feel better when you aren’t soaked.”  
She shakes her head absent mindedly but does as she’s told, going until she’s left in nothing but a long shirt to preserve her modesty.

Chrom’s mind chooses that moment to remind him that he’s seen her in less clothes than that, and that she’s seen him in a similar state. The thought makes him blush, though thankfully Aislin doesn’t notice. Her expression is a distant one, though every so often he catches her shooting glances at the temple walls as if they were about to crumble down and crush them all. Her worry is enough that Chrom follows her gaze, but the walls look sturdy, the paintings and markings dulled by age so that he can’t make them out.

“The three of you should try to get some rest.” Frederick says. “We’ve all had a long day, and I fear tomorrow will be longer still.”

“What about setting up watch?” Chrom asks. And looking after the other Shepherds, and going through their inventory lists, and a dozen other duties that suddenly pop into Chrom’s head. He is the leader of the Shepherds, he should be doing something, but in this moment, he feels useless, almost as useless as he felt when Emm fell.

“I’ll take care of it, milord. You needn’t worry.”

Narcissus starts forward. “I can—”

Frederick cuts him off. “You need to rest as well. I suspect we’ll need our tactician in top form if we wish to leave Plegia with our forces intact.”

It’s not fair for Frederick to take all this on, Chrom thinks. He’s probably grieving Emmeryn’s death as much as Chrom and Lissa are, maybe even more. But then, Chrom isn’t going to stop him, either. Keeping busy is Frederick’s way to grieve, just as numbness is Chrom’s.

He nods. “Alright. I leave everything in your capable hands.”

“Thank you, milord.” Frederick says. He bows and walks away.

Narcissus stays staring at Frederick’s back in shock until Chrom clasps him on the shoulder.

“Frederick is right. We both need to rest.” He says. None of his wounds are serious, but Chrom knows they’ll be worse in the morning if he doesn’t at least try to rest.

And judging by the way Narcissus winces when Chrom’s hand lands on his shoulder, he’s no different.

Chrom leads him to a section of the wall close to the fire, and they both sit down stiffly. When he looks up again, it’s to find Aislin staring out at the expanse of the temple.

“Aislin,” he calls, “you should sleep too.”

She looks at the wall behind them again, frowning to herself. Then all at once she sighs and joins them. 

To Chrom’s surprise, she sits down on his right side, away from Narcissus, and hugs her knees to her chest. Chrom and Narcissus exchange glances, but neither of them say a word. 

Chrom settles against the wall, trying to get comfortable. It’s certainly not the best place he’s ever slept in, but he can’t say it’s the worst, either. Still, Chrom very much doubts he’ll be able to sleep. He fears that if he closes his eyes, he’ll see Emmeryn falling to her death again, see her head split against the stone and hear Gangrel’s laughter in his ears.

The thought alone makes him shudder.

“Still cold?” Narcissus asks, and before Chrom can answer Narcissus pulls his cloak away from the fire and throws it over him. To Chrom’s surprise, it is almost completely dry.

“Won’t you need it?” Chrom asks. Nights in Plegia are notoriously cold, and he has no doubt this night will be the same.

Narcissus shakes his head. “I’m not cold, but now that I think about it. . .” He looks across Chrom to Aislin. “It might be long enough to cover the three of us if we move together.”

Aislin snorts.

“You know it’s true, Ash.” Narcissus says, tone almost teasing. He scoots closer to Chrom until their legs are touching, and repositions the fabric over them both before waving at his sister. “Come on.”

She comes without much coaxing, though she stops just before her skin can come in contact with Chrom’s. He almost wishes that she would touch him. Aislin is nowhere near as affectionate as her brother, and in this moment Chrom finds himself craving her touch.

Chrom lifts the cloak off his legs and settles it over Aislin, making sure to let his finger brush over her legs. She tenses and looks at him with wide eyes.

She isn’t free with her affections, and she’s always surprised when someone other than Narcissus is affectionate with her. If they survive this war, Chrom wants to spend the rest of his life showing her just how much he cares. Maybe then she’ll stop flinching back from every caress.

* * *

Sometime later, Chrom wakes with both twins pressed against him, each of their heads on his shoulder. He in turn has a hand over both their waists, pulling them closer still.

Chrom can’t remember how he got there, but honestly he doesn’t care. It should be an uncomfortable position, but all Chrom can feel is relief at their nearness, at the fact that they are both finally getting some rest. Their faces, while not completely at peace, are at least free of the tension and grief that had been resting there before. Chrom should feel the same, but there’s tension in his body that he can’t shake, that makes him sit up despite the risk of disturbing the twins.

Something had woken him, hadn’t it?

The answer comes a second later, when Chrom’s vision clears enough to see Frederick moving towards him, slowly yet deliberately so as not to disturb the other sleeping Shepherds. He stops when he notices that Chrom is awake.

“Milord, you need to come take a look at this. And the twins as well.”

The grimness in his tone and on his face is what convinces Chrom to rouse Aislin and Narcissus. Aislin comes awake all at once, instantly alert in a way that Chrom envies. Narcissus takes longer to rouse, but not by much, and soon the three of them are dressed. Frederick leads them to the front entrance of the temple where Gaius is standing watch, eyes focused on something far out on the horizon.

“Saw them maybe half an hour ago.” Gaius explains. “Just appeared out of nowhere. I don’t think they know we’re here yet, but they will if they start checking.”

The Plegian army has found them. 

“They don’t look like that many.” Narcissus says, though he doesn’t sound sure of his own assessment.

“More than we can take on now, given our current state.” Frederick says.

Most of the Shepherds are injured, and those who aren’t are still recovering from what it took to flee the Plegian capital. What’s more, they have nowhere to run. The flat desert stretches for miles. If they try to leave, someone is bound to see them, and try to finish what Gangrel started. 

They can’t fight, but it looks like they’re going to have to.

Chrom is distinctly aware of the fact that everyone is looking at him, waiting for his thoughts, his decision as commander. He takes a breath. The last time someone made a decision this big for him, Emmeryn died. This might be the last decision he ever makes, but at least it will be his own. 

“Wake the Shepherds and tell them to prepare for battle.”

Frederick nods gravely, and goes to do his bidding.

The inside of the temple erupts in a flurry of activity as people scramble to put on clothes and get their weapons. Chrom looks at all of the Shepherds as he passes, keeping track of who all can fight. Even with Libra, Lissa, and Maribelle’s healing, a fourth of the Shepherds are down, though they certainly try to get up when Chrom passes. In another life, Chrom would admire their spirit, but right now he tells them to sit down and wait. Sending them out in that state would be signing their death warrant, and Chrom has no desire to see anyone else die because of him.

“So we’re outnumbered and out of resources.” Narcissus mumbles when they finish inspecting the troops. His eyes scan over them one more time, assessing. “And the terrain is against us. Not exactly ideal, but we might be able to use the temple to our advantage.”

“Do you think it’s wise to engage them so close?” Frederick asks.

“At this rate, I think it’s our only option.”

Khan Basilio laughs. “Well I can say one thing, it’s going to be a hell of a battle.”

But not one they can even hope to win. Not with the size of the army advancing on them. They would need a miracle for that, and after what happen to Emmeryn, Chrom doesn’t think miracles exist.

Aislin offers no opinion. She hasn’t said a word since they woke up. Her skin is startlingly pale now, fists clenched tight enough that Chrom fears she’s going to make herself bleed.

He reaches out to her, but Aislin pulls away from him and shakes her head. 

“I’m fine.” She says.

Chrom doesn’t believe her, but he’s pulled away by Frederick to discuss battle plans before he can say anything else.

It doesn’t take long to come up with a solid plan. There aren’t many tactics involved in a last stand, other than “stay alive as long as possible.” Chrom knows that he should give the Shepherds a rousing speech, something to boost their morale before sending them to battle, but he can’t find the words. Instead, he stands back and watches as they all get into formation, wishing that he wasn’t sending his friends out to their deaths.

“Wait a minute.” Narcissus says. “Where’s Aislin?”

She had been right beside him for most of the night, but now, as the Shepherds all move into position, Chrom realizes that Aislin is gone, and a bolt of fear shoots through him.

“She can’t have gone far.” He hears himself say. There isn’t anywhere else _to_ go.

“I don’t see Tharja either.” Narcissus says, frowning in puzzlement. “Do you think—”

He cuts off, eyes suddenly going distant. For one moment, Chrom can swear he sees a glow behind them.

In the next, Narcissus is running, and Chrom follows him without a word. They fly to the rear of the temple, and then through an opening that Chrom knows wasn’t there before.

Tharja is on the other side, tome alight in her hands, tracing purple patterns into the sand around— 

“Aislin!” Chrom yells, and Narcissus echoes him. She stands placidly in the middle of all this, head down.

“Tharja!” Narcissus calls, and the dark mage looks up at him. “What are you doing?!”

Chrom’s hand is already on Falchion’s hilt. He should have known better than to let a Plegian dark mage into their ranks, no matter how apathetic she might have been to Gangrel’s plot. He should have known it was a trap, that one day she would turn against them.

And now, she has Aislin.

He draws Falchion and starts forward, intent on ending this once and for all.

Aislin’s voice brings him to a halt.

“Don’t.” She says, finally looking up at him. Her eyes and voice are almost devoid of all emotion. “She’s helping me.”

Tharja continues working, almost heedless of Chrom’s blade.

“Helping you with what?” Chrom asks, not bothering to keep the suspicion out of his voice, or to sheath Falchion. He doesn’t believe that this is something Aislin would want. She hates dark magic, and to see her standing calmly as it happens around her is what unnerves him most about this situation, almost more than Aislin’s blank eyes.  
Something shifts in them now, pain and heartache maybe, though her voice is level when she speaks.

“We can’t hope to fight our way through the Plegian army, you both know that. So I’m evening the odds.” She looks back to the circle.

“I’m summoning a myth.”

Tharja finishes her trek around the room, and light spreads through the circle until it glows purple on the floor. Chrom feels Narcissus shudder beside him, and instinctively moves in front of him. He may not be a mage, but Chrom can feel the power coming off this circle, and something else that grates against him.

“Ash. . .” Narcissus says quietly behind him.

“Summoning?” Chrom asks at the same time. “I thought you couldn’t do magic?”

There’s a glint of metal as Aislin pulls her fletching knife out of her pocket.

“I can’t.” She says, and then she drags the knife across her wrist.

Chrom and Narcissus both lurch forward to stop her. Blood magic is dangerous, not to mention forbidden. But before they can reach her, she slashes her other and turns them both so that the blood can fall on the circle.  
It erupts into a blinding light, and the force of it throws Chrom backwards, making him drop Falchion. In the distance, he can hear Aislin chanting words that he can’t hope to understand. They echo off the stone wall of the room, reverberating in a way that sends shivers down his spine and makes his blood run cold. 

This is wrong, he thinks. Summoning, blood magic, it is all wrong, and the worst is that Aislin is in the middle of it, and he can’t reach her, held immobile by the same power echoing off the walls. 

Abruptly, the chanting cuts off, and the light shifts, concentrating in the middle of the circle on either side of Aislin. The color changes, moving from a bright purple to a deeper, sludgier blood like color. Aislin raises both her arms, and the light begins to coalesce into two human like figures made of blood and darkness.

“Arise.” Aislin intones.

The darkness recedes, and in its wake, a sorcerer and swordmaster kneel before Aislin. Their skin is a purplish grey that reminds Chrom of decay, and when they look up, their eyes flash red.

“Gallus and Simia.” Aislin says looking down at the two in surprise. “Only those? I thought. . .” She shakes her head suddenly, features hardening once more. “You’ll be enough to get rid of the Plegian army. Stand.”

They do so, and in the same instant Chrom finally gains control of his voice and limbs. Still, he can do nothing but stare at the figures that Aislin summoned. Every bone in his body is screaming at him that those are not people, that they are _dangerous,_ that he needs to kill them before they do anything to hurt Aislin or anyone else. His hands twitches towards Falchion, and he just manages to keep himself from grabbing its hilt.

Instead, Chrom takes a step forward, and instantly the figures turn towards him, red eyes boring into his skull. He ignores the malice coming off of them in waves and focuses his attention on Aislin. Her wrists are still bleeding, though much more sluggishly than before, and she looks like she could collapse at any moment.

“Aislin,” Chrom starts, moving towards her again. “You should—”

“You shouldn’t come any closer.” Aislin says, at the same time that the figures close rank around her and reach for their weapons. “They know you’re of Exalted blood; they think you’re the enemy.”

Chrom stills. “And what are they?”

“The Dead Lords.” Aislin whispers. “They are the Dead Lords.”

“What? But how—”

“You heard what Tharja said, didn’t you?” Aislin says, glancing forlornly at her wrists. “They can be summoned by those of Fell blood.” Her next words are so soft Chrom has to strain to hear them “But still, only two. Is that what my life is worth?” 

Her life? No. _No._

He can’t. He won’t— 

 

“Aislin,” Chrom cries, reaching for her arm, to stop her, to beg her from throwing her life away. “Wait—”  
The instant his hand touches her flesh, the Dead Lords move, weapons flashing towards Chrom.

Aislin’s eyes widen in horror, mouth dropping—

“Stop!”

Narcissus’s voice echoes through the room, halting the Dead Lords with their weapons inches from Chrom’s body. 

“Stand down.” Narcissus says, the Dead Lords do, sheathing their weapons and moving back into place. He doesn’t even look surprised that the Dead Lords heeded his call, only resigned in the same way Aislin is.

“Fell blood. If you have it, I have it too, don’t I?” He says, rubbing the mark on his hand. “And this—”

“Don’t try to take control, Sissy.” Aislin says. “Not now, or ever.”

“But I can—”

_“No.”_

The weight of that one word reverberates through the temple. Narcissus’ eyes glaze over, and he takes a step back away from his sister. Before the echo has even ended, Aislin shakes her head, and the remnants of sound cut off abruptly.

“No.” Her voice is quieter this time. “Just, let me do this. It’s already been done.”

“Aislin please, wait.” Chrom needs to understand what’s going on. He needs to stop her. “Please—”

“I can’t, Chrom. There isn’t time.” 

There’s an apology in those words, and in the way she looks at him, sorrow and heartache and something else swirling in her eyes. But her gaze doesn’t linger, and she turns her back on him and addresses the Dead Lords.

“There’s an army outside advancing on us. Your job is to protect the temple and everyone inside it. I don’t care if you have to kill everyone in the opposing army to do it, just make sure my friends are safe. Do you understand?”

“Wait.” Narcissus says, and the Dead Lords tear their attention away from Aislin and look to him. “Aislin—”

“No!” Aislin cries. She squeezes her fist together, and blood starts to pour from her wound once more. The Dead Lords’ eyes flash. “I summoned you. I’m your master. You answer to me, not him. Do you understand your orders?”

There’s a pause, and then in unison, the Dead Lords bow to her.

“Good. Now go forth and raze.”


End file.
